


217 Days (The Way You Said I Love You - Remix)

by g33kyclassic



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Non-Mutant, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Erik Has Feelings, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g33kyclassic/pseuds/g33kyclassic
Summary: Charles hasn't written in 217 days... not that Erik is counting.Separated by an ocean, Erik and Charles have been communicating through letters.  Until they abruptly stop coming.One day, the silence finally ends...
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 77
Collections: X-Men Remix 2020





	217 Days (The Way You Said I Love You - Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luredin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luredin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [luredin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luredin/pseuds/luredin). Log in to view. 



> This fic was written for the X-men Remix 2020.
> 
> If you enjoy this one, please go give the original fic that inspired this one a read!

* * *

Two hundred and seventeen days. It had been two hundred and seventeen days since he’d received the telegram. Two hundred and seventeen days since he’d first read Charles’ curt words.

They still cut like a knife to the heart.

_‘Am unable to make the planned trip to New York. Unexpected occurrence. Will contact when able to travel.’_

Erik had waited patiently, or as patiently as a man awaiting word from the other half of his soul can be. But days had turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and no word had arrived. Not another tersely worded telegram that barely resembled the words of his friend, nor an extensively detailed letter full of what should be extraneous details that Charles was somehow able to turn into captivating tales. Nothing at all.

When Erik had travelled back to his family, crossing the Atlantic, he had felt the weight of every mile between himself and Charles. It had been difficult then to imagine his life without the other man; his staunchest supporter, his late night chess opponent, his brother in arms.

Five years ago, Erik had left home as soon as he had heard the vaguest rumour of the oppression of Jewish people in Germany. The United States may not have been joining the war, but Erik was determined to find a way to fight, and the trip to Canada had been simple enough. A rich entitled American, a man Erik detested almost on sight for his arrogance, had seen to getting Erik and his fellow volunteers to England to train with the RAF.

The day he met Charles had changed everything.

Charles had seen his potential. Potential beyond that of a pilot. He had advocated that Erik’s language skills and knowledge of German geography and culture, despite being ten years out of date, were of value. Charles had stood before important men, the men who made these decisions, and spoken on Erik’s behalf with such fervor and certainty that no one could possibly resist him.

They had been acquainted all of two days at that point. Yet Charles had risked his own military career to vouch for Erik. A man he’d witnessed being harassed by his peers over his Jewish faith and immediately steered him away from the group, acting as if they were old friends. Erik had been more than a little stunned as he was lead away by a then unknown man with a bright smile, brilliant blue eyes, and what he would come to discover was an even more brilliant mind.

Charles had taken Erik out for dinner that evening and then snuck him into officer housing for the night. Erik hadn’t needed any such coddling, but he couldn’t deny it was much more comfortable than spending the night with one eye open, waiting for yet another midnight prank to be played upon him. 

A true gentleman, Charles had offered Erik his bed and slept on the floor without a word of complaint.

Erik wondered, come morning, if Charles might be at risk of disciplinary action for having another man in his room, or the victim of nasty rumours. Nothing of the sort occurred. Charles was the highest ranking officer in the barracks and despite his boyish good looks and smaller stature, not a soul would speak a word against him. His fellow officers followed his orders to the letter, not a toe out of line, not a single question regarding Erik’s sudden presence. 

When word came down two days later that he’d been transferred to Charles’ unit, the only person who was surprised was Erik.

He discovered then, though why it hadn’t occurred to him earlier he had no idea, that Charles lead his own team of men, specializing in code breaking and espionage. Charles lead a rather rag tag team of men, and even some women. Charles valued original thinkers and unconventional personalities. Most of them worked behind desks, decoding messages, analyzing information, attempting to predict troop movements. But Charles, and a handful of others went on various missions: to the front, and behind enemy lines as well.

Training for that, knowing his skill set was perfectly suited to being deposited in Germany to find the most valuable information possible, gave Erik a much needed sense of purpose. It also gave him hope; hope that he would have an impact on the war, that he could help his people.

Those days had been the beginning of four years of comradery and friendship. When the war was finally coming to its climax, after dozens of missions under their belts, and months upon months of time spent working together, everyone on the unit knew Charles and Erik were a team. They were practically inseparable, and more than a few of their squadron had said they acted as though they could read each other’s minds.

These days, alone in New York, Erik wished that had been true.

He wished he’d been able to read Charles’ mind those last few months. They’s spent so much time in close quarters; spying on the enemy, and then hiding to avoid capture. Nights spent huddled together for warmth when they couldn’t risk a fire for heat. Charles’ hands, always cold, tucked into Erik’s sides. Every morsel of food shared between them. Every secret whispered to each other in the dark, every confession laid bare. If one of them should die, all their most precious memories were trusted to the other, all the last words for their loved ones passed along to the other man.

Their were times in those months when Erik felt Charles was essential to his very existence.

It had been so easy, had felt so natural, for the relationship to become something more. Erik couldn’t even remember who had leaned forward for that first kiss, he could only remember that it had felt right, as if it was something that should have happened ages ago. 

In those frantic, dangerous last weeks of the war, Erik’s nights with Charles, the feel of their bodies moving together, their hushed sighs and moans, their mutual pleasure in each other, was the only light in an otherwise dark world.

Then, in those final days leading up to the Allies last big push, Erik had been injured – struck by shrapnel and injured in his side. True to his determined and stubborn nature, Charles had single-handedly dragged Erik along with him, sneaking through enemy lines and returning them to the safety of the Allied Forces. Between his medical treatment, and Charles’ continued involvement in military planning and delivering their hard won intelligence, Erik had barely seen his friend for a week.

All the things he’d wanted to confess had gone unspoken. All the words he’d meant to say had gone unsaid.

Then, it seemed before he’d even known it was possible, he’d been shipped back to New York, to be with his family, his service in the British Army complete. He and Charles had shared a hasty, semi-public goodbye in a hospital. They’d shaken hands and promised to write; acted the perfect part of brothers in arms and nothing more.

As happy as Erik had been about the prospect of seeing his mother again, he’d felt as if he’d left half his heart back in England with Charles. The problem was, he had no idea if Charles wanted his heart. They’d never spoken about what they were to each other; they simply were, and then through the complex twists of fate, they weren’t.

He could have said something in his letters, perhaps, but its hadn’t felt right. Their letters were… stilted; full of mundane events and bland questions inquiring about each other’s health and family. Erik treasured each word Charles wrote; even the dull monotony of his life - his continued work with the British Army that was quickly coming to a close now that the war was over, his fights with his sister – all of it was entertaining to Erik. 

But he missed the times they used to whisper to each other in the fading evening light. Conversations about nothing and everything, words flowing easily and silences easy, though uncommon. What they’d had couldn’t be reproduced on a piece of paper.

Walking home, mindless to the crowded New York streets around him, Erik wondered what he next step should be. Should he confess his feelings on paper, as inadequate as it might seem? Should he throw caution to the wind and travel back to England? Or should he admit the likely truth – Charles had moved on, he had never loved Erik, and now, after months apart, he’d simply found other things, other people, with which to fill his life.

His thoughts darkening, Erik trudged home, each footstep feeling heavy and burdened. A life without the chaos of war should have been paradise, yet somehow Erik found this world harder to live with, more difficult to find his place within.

“Erik!” He startled at the sound of his mother’s voice.

At this time of day she is usually in the kitchen, winding down from her own day of work, drinking a dark, rich cup of coffee. Erik narrowed his eyes as he searched for his mother and found her standing, an easy smile on her face, on their front stoop.

She grinned wider as Erik’s eyes found her.

“Erik, your friend is here! All the way from England!” 

She motioned to her left and Erik took in the man beside her; the wavy brown hair, the bright blue eyes. He froze, his whole body, his whole being, everything just stopped.

“Erik?” His mother’s voice sounded distant, as if she was speaking to him from half a block away, not a few feet in front of him.

“I think he might be slightly stunned.” Charles’ crisp voice cut in, and Erik let his eyes close for a moment savouring the sound, a sound he thought he might never hear again.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Edie said, her eyes traveling between them.

Erik couldn’t make himself care what she might think; watching her son standing stock still staring at another man on the sidewalk. He must look ridiculous, but he simple couldn’t move: Charle was here, in New York.

“You’re here.” Erik said, his thoughts tumbling dumbly out of his mouth.

“I am.” Charles smiled slightly, his eyes twinkling.

“We should go inside… my mother should have invited you in.” Erik frowned.

In truth, he couldn’t think of a reason his mother wouldn’t have invited Charles inside and stuffed him full of food and plied him for information about their time during the war, a time Erik seldom spoke about. His mother loved nothing more than to pry into his life, with all the best of intentions and love of a mother.

“Ah, well, I’m afraid she couldn’t.” Charles replied with a shrug.

And then he moved, rolling out from behind the stairs in front of house, seated in a wheelchair. For a moment, Erik thought he might be sick. He’d left. He’d left England, the war had been over in almost every sense, and yet here was Charles, a different man. How could Erik have left and let such a thing happen?

“Your mother mentioned you might be able to assist me.” Charles said, his cheeks flushing slightly.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Erik offered, keeping his voice low.

“My paralysis isn’t complete, I should be able to make it up the stairs with someone to lean on. I can’t walk for long distances, not yet, but with the support of a friend, I believe I can make it.”

* * *

After dinner, after Erik’s mother had fawned over Charles – his accent, and his blue eyes, and his perfect manners – Erik sat with Charles in the living room, just the two of them. Erik could still feel the heat of Charles’ body against his arm from when he had helped the other man up the stairs; the first time he had touched Charles in a year.

He wanted to touch Charles again. He wanted to say so many things, ask so many questions; he hardly knew where to start.

“What happened?” Erik asked bluntly, unable to keep his curiosity at bay any longer.

“There was an accident.” Charles answered vaguely.

“Did they send you back out? To the battlefield?”

“No.” Charles shook his head. “I remained behind a desk for the last months of the war. My accident was just that – an accident. I was hit by a car while biking home one night.”  
Erik was sure he was gaping like a fish. Hit by a car. Such a mundane, yet horrible thing. If Charles had been hurt on the battlefield, on a mission somewhere, Erik would have felt an uncontrollable anger. On the battlefield he would have felt he could have done something, in the same way Charles had done something for him, dragging him to safety.

But a car? Erik couldn’t stop a car. He could have been in England, waiting for Charles to come home, and still he would have been injured. A terrible twist of fate for a young man to make it through a war, and then be physically shattered by every day life. 

“Is that why you stopped writing? Your accident?”

“Yes.” Charles answered, his eyes falling away from Erik’s face.

“You could have written me, once you’d recovered.” Erik said, watching a muscle in Charles’ cheek twitch. “You could have told me what happened. You could have told me you were coming.”

Silence. Erik gave Charles a slow once over from head to toe. He noted Charles’ clenched hands, his knuckles white with strain, the tendons of tension in Charles’ neck.

“I didn’t hear from you for two hundred and seventeen days.” Erik choked out through the lump in his throat. “Did you stop writing because you thought an accident would change things between us? That I would treat you differently? That I would feel differently?”

“I am not the man you knew before.” Charles replied harshly.

“You are.” Erik insisted.

Charles scowled and made to reply, but Erik cut him off: “Did you truly believe my opinion of you would change? Because of your legs?”

“We have spent a great deal of time apart.” Charles answered stiffly. “And, yes, clearly my legs are not what they used to be – my body is not what it used to be.”

Erik heard the pain in Charles’ voice; it was raw and tinged with anger. Erik took a moment to think, to allow himself to imagine what Charles must have gone through: his body scarred, his whole life altered in a fraction of a second. Was he ashamed? Did Charles think Erik would think less of him?

Erik had to set things straight.

“No matter what has changed, I feel the same as I did the day I left.” Erik hesitated only slightly, before plunging forward. “I should have told you then, I should have written it in every letter: I love you, Charles. I loved you then, I love you now. No accident can change that.”

“Nothing has changed?” Charles asked, his voice much smaller than Erik would have liked to hear.

Erik moved off his chair, kneeling on the floor in front of Charles, locking their eyes together. Charles’ eyes were swelled with tears and Erik felt his heart lurch in his chest; maybe, just maybe, Charles’ heart was just as full of pounding emotion as his own.

“Nothing.” Erik repeated. “I regret not telling you as soon as I knew; huddled together in the night, in hollowed out buildings and decrepit farm houses. If I haven’t waited too long, if you somehow feel the same, then I don’t want to waste anymore time. I want it to be us, together, again.”

“It won’t be like it was.” Charles began, and then cut himself off with a shake of his head. “But if you’ll have me, then I would like nothing more than to face my days with you by my side.”

Erik reached forward quickly and cradled Charles’ palm in his own, bringing it gently to his lips and kissing the plump flesh below Charles’ thumb.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, my love.” Charles choked out, tugging Erik’s hand up to his own lips. “I knew I had to let you leave, that you should see your family again. But I must admit, it felt as if my heart was wrenched from my chest. How does a man live when his heart is an ocean away?”

Erik brushed a tear from Charles’ cheek.

“Together then? Whatever the future brings, we can face it together.” Erik vowed.

“Together, my love.” Charles gave a teary smile. “Together.”


End file.
